


The Worst Pain is the Kind We Cause Ourselves

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Detox, Drug Addiction, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Pre-A Study in Pink, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock told Irene he’d never begged for mercy in his life. This was a complete lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Pain is the Kind We Cause Ourselves

Sherlock told Irene he’d never begged for mercy in his life. This was a _complete_ lie.

When Sherlock dropped out of school because he was bored (and because he’d had several disagreements with the dorm supervisor over the correct use of his fridge) he moved to London. It was the obvious choice; better than going back to the estate and listening to Mummy’s disappointed complaining. There was so _much_ in London. The streets were full of people and cars, all with their own stories and clues, the very air hummed with sound and electricity. He was closer to Mycroft but it wasn’t so terrible. He just made sure he was never home when his brother came to visit.

Of course this was before Mycroft’s ‘minor position’ gave him access to the city’s CCTV.

 

There was too much in London. His brain fired answers at him faster than he could think up the questions. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Nothing could keep him calm. He sought out the darker clubs, the dirtier houses, the places with secrets to distract him. It wasn’t enough. The thrill of the deduction faded faster and faster, until he was in danger of collapsing from the strain.

Sherlock was curiosity personified, and if there was one thing he loved above all others it was chemicals. It was almost a foregone conclusion.

*****

Sherlock mixed his seven per cent and drew it up into the syringe, eyes glued to the flat level of the solution. He flicked the glass once, twice. It was so clear, almost like it didn’t really exist, just a trick of the light. He pushed the tip of the needle into his thigh, piercing the sensitive skin on the inside. His thumb pressed the plunger and it squeezed itself into his vein, coursing up towards his heart.

Sherlock sat back on the god-awful couch he’d dragged in off the street and closed his eyes, sucking the air in through his nostrils deeply. He could feel it coming, the soft caress of the drug over his brain. The flashing light of his thoughts slowed, blinked, paused and then went out completely. Everything was slow motion, his observations laying themselves out clearly now (when he made them at all). Everything was _better_. Sherlock drifted. Sometimes it felt like that was all he’d ever done.

*****

Mycroft opened the door with the key he’d had secretly cut and tucked it carefully in his pocket before stepping inside. The place looked abysmal as always, but that was just his brother’s standard of housekeeping. The lounge and kitchen area was dark, empty. There was a light in the bedroom and he walked over, stopping on the threshold.

Sherlock was lying in his sheets in nothing but underwear, staring at the wallpaper above his head. His curls were sweat-soaked, his pupils blown huge. He licked his lips unthinkingly as his hands sat frozen on his bare chest. Mycroft swept his gaze over the room and spotted the empty syringe on the dresser, the vial abandoned beside it.

“You cannot keep doing this, Sherlock. Think of what it would do to Mummy.”

“Mycroft.” He said dreamily, head rolling to the side.

He sighed. There was no point trying to lecture him now. The elder Holmes hung his umbrella on the door knob and took off his coat, throwing it over a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. He would wait this out. There was no chance he’d let Sherlock escape when he sobered up.

 

It was another few hours before Sherlock’s eyes completely focused, his nails dragging down his chest anxiously. He sat up, pulling himself back against the headboard. Mycroft offered him a glass of water and his brother’s expression grew wary and resentful.

“Let yourself in, did you?” he took the glass.

“Sherly, I will cut off your allowance if you persist in squandering it on this junk.”

“I wouldn’t call it _squandered_.”

“You need direction. A profession, a hobby. Friends that don’t live in alleys.”

“Wrong,” he rolled his eyes, “You need those things. Other, boring people need them.”

“Clean yourself up or I will do it for you.”

Mycroft stood and collected the vial and the needle, briefly checking the rest of the room before hanging his coat and umbrella over his wrist.

“I will be keeping a very close eye on you, Sherlock. At least try to think about it.”

That was the problem though. All Sherlock ever did was think.

*****

He didn’t stop but he did take to hiding it better. With Mycroft around as a challenge he had to work hard. Sometimes his best option was to shoot up with his dealer and stumble home in a haze. Sherlock gave no thought to stopping; he didn’t see any reason he should.

He was coming home from a grocery run (cigarettes, sugar and tea) when he spotted the upturned corner of the doormat. He sighed. So Mycroft had decided to stop by again. It was too late to turn around and there was nothing incriminating in the flat, so he let himself in with the intention to weather out whatever sermon his brother had prepared this week and then get on with his day.

Mycroft was sitting on the couch, jacket off, sleeves rolled up and legs crossed. He scowled at Sherlock as he came in (which was fine, since he was already scowling at Mycroft).

“This couch is the worst I have ever had the displeasure of sitting on.”

“No need to make yourself comfortable, Mycroft. I’m sure you won’t be staying long.” He carried his bags into the kitchen.

“I am, actually.”

“Oh? I hope you’re paying for dinner then.”

“A bit longer than that.”

Sherlock’s head perked up. “Pardon?”

“I told you to sort it out, Sherly.”

“What are you intending to do, put me under house arrest?”

“I am going to force you to detox.”

“You can’t.”

“I very much can. I’ve taken the month off work, brought my things over, stocked the pantry. We are going to stay here until you are clean.”

“I don’t need your interfering, Mycroft!”

“Too bad.”

He huffed and stuck out his lip, tapping at the counter. Sherlock snatched his keys and headed for the door but his brother was faster, blocking it with his solid bulk.

“I’m sorry, Sherly. This is for your own good.”

He sneered. “I doubt that. If it was you’d stick me in rehab with doctors and shrinks. This is just so no one finds out your little brother is a junkie.”

He made to push past but Mycroft grabbed him, cuffs clicking shut around his wrist.

“Wha-” Sherlock wriggled against the hold but it was too late; Mycroft was already dragging him towards the bedroom.

“Mycroft!”

He clicked the other half of the cuffs shut around the bedpost, shoving Sherlock onto the mattress.

“I promise that one day you will thank me for this.”

“These won’t hold me!” Sherlock rattled the restraints.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“You think that will stop me?”

Mycroft’s face grew very grim. “What are you going to do Sherlock? Hurt me?”

He fell silent, looking down at his stomach. Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you will choose to ignore this, but I really do only want the best for you Sherlock.”

He turned his face away. “There is no best for me anymore.”

 

Mycroft put the second pair of cuffs on at midnight. Sherlock had been threatening to dislocate his wrist to escape; with both pinioned he couldn’t get the leverage. He huffed and whined but tried to play it off as mere annoyance. Mycroft could see it though, the faint line of sweat on his forehead. He’d be desperate soon enough.

 

He sat at the kitchen table with a mostly empty glass of scotch pressed to his cheek, eyes closed tight.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled again, “Mycroft please!”

He tried to ignore it, taking another sip. If anything the alcohol only made it worse.

“Mycroft!”

His brother’s voice was a ragged blade in the darkness, a cry that reminded him of childhood thunderstorms and scraped knees. Sherlock had grown out of that fairly young. This wasn’t something he could just smooth over. Mycroft couldn’t make this magically go away.

He finished the glass and stood, filling a bowl with water. He took the hand towel from the counter and walked into Sherlock’s room. He was in heavy withdrawals not, stripped to his underwear and still sweating through the sheets, hair matted and face shiny and pink. Mycroft sat at the head of the bed as Sherlock tossed and tugged at the cuffs, wetting the cloth.

“There now,” he dabbed it gently over his brother’s brow, “You’ll be alright. You just have to get through this part first.”

“You don’t understand. I _need_ it.”

“You won’t, we’ll get past this and you won’t need it anymore.”

He chuckled hollowly, the sound rough after all the yelling. “I’ll always need it.”

Mycroft didn’t comment, wiping him down instead. Sherlock hissed as he rubbed the tender skin of his wrists but he was too exhausted to protest.

“How do you do it, Mikey? How do you turn it off?”

Blue eyes locked on his, wide and clear for once. Mycroft shrugged.

“You don’t. You learn to apply it for something useful instead.”

*****

As the yearning rose to unbearable levels it brought a hyperawareness that might drive him mad. Sherlock cringed away from the thoughts rushing through his mind in all directions, as if his brain had become a bus station for every insignificant aside and judgement in the street. Sherlock curled in on himself, not caring about the metal that cut in further. He couldn’t live like this.

A cool hand touched his forehead. “Shh, you’re doing very well.”

“Please,” he whispered, “Please. You have to make it stop!”

“It will. We have to wait.”

He sobbed into the pillow, cradling the head that caused so much trouble as he tried to force everything else out.

 

Sherlock Holmes told The Woman he’d never begged for mercy, and maybe she believed him. Mycroft knew better.


End file.
